


your tongue between my teeth

by rosesburnedalive



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Brief Description of Blood, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Hand Jobs, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pet Names, Sharing Clothes, first time writing nsfw pls be kind, neurodivergent Spencer Reid
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2020-08-17
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:00:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25703203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosesburnedalive/pseuds/rosesburnedalive
Summary: Derek ropes Spencer into spending their week of vacation helping him at his newest property.excerpt:Derek’s gaze has always been like radiation poisoning, a small Chernobyl festering with silent, unfurling toxin, the side effects of which are still unknown. The amount of time between exposures is irrelevant, like one day you would reach your threshold, and then it just killed you. Wrecked you from the inside out.Spencer looks back to his empty mug and swirls around the dregs of it.“Wanna ‘nother cup?”“Hmm?”“Let me make you another cup.” Derek plucks the mug from his hands.
Relationships: Derek Morgan/Spencer Reid
Comments: 41
Kudos: 330





	your tongue between my teeth

“While I can’t have you, I long for you. I am the kind of person who would miss a train or a plane to meet you for coffee... If you call me and say ‘Will you…’ my answer is ‘yes’, before your sentence is out.” — Jeanette Winterson, _Desire_

“My thoughts cannot move an inch without bumping into some piece of you.” — John Acker, _I Had To Write_

* * *

It’s a short drive from the FBI Academy Building to Morgan’s newest property. Scenic, as all drives should be. They’re both exhausted from their last case; Spencer was only able to catch a measly two hour nap on the jet after working twenty-seven caffeine-fueled hours but he’s pretty sure Morgan was able to squeeze in a few hours somewhere in there. 

Hotch had sent the team off to their week of vacation early after rushing through the post-case wrap-up, thankfully. 

It hadn’t been a particularly gory or death ridden case, but it was grueling nonetheless and while a week vacation after all that sounds incredible in theory, Spencer is dreading it a bit. His stomach is a mess; his entrails, from colon to diaphragm, twisted into a knot. 

It’ll take hours to unpick. 

There have been cases that he’s spent weeks sleeping in the same hotel room as Morgan and that was hard enough on its own. This is going to be a whole week trapped inside the same house as a sweaty, shirtless Derek Morgan lifting boxes and wielding power tools. 

Something is bound to break, whether it’ll be Spencer's heart, his willpower, a bunch of tools, or his relationship with the man he considers his best friend is still up in the air. 

Maybe, if Reid were a stronger man, he would’ve been able to say no to Morgan. But Spencer is putty in Derek’s hands at the best of times and resisting Derek looking at him like all he wants in the whole world is for Spencer to join him while flashing one of his signature 1000-watt smiles was too much to bear. 

So, here he is; in a car, with Derek Morgan, driving to an old house where he’s going to spend the next week drooling over said man and trying to avoid dying of asbestos.

“This is the one.” Derek says and pulls in front of a white house, worn from age and weather. From what he can see from the car in the evening light Spencer can tell that it’s in desperate need of repair.

It’s beautiful, though.

“Morgan, this is incredible. When was this built? 1890? 85? It looks American Queen Anne Victorian.”

“1881, actually. I’m glad you like it, I’m excited to get started on it.”

Derek hops out of the car and Spencer follows him to the trunk of the car where he’s packed supplies for their stay. Something catches his eye.

“Is that a dog bed?”

“Oh, uh, yeah. Usually I’d have Clooney up here keepin’ me company.”

“Why didn’t you bring him?”

“I thought that it might be easier if he got to spend another few days with the neighbors since you’re uncomfortable with dogs.” Derek scratches the back of his neck. “Plus, he loves it there.”

“Oh.”

Derek has more than one way to leave Spencer speechless. Sometimes it’s just the trade of a verbal barb for barb, smooth as well loved leather, or a display of physicality without too much conceit. Other times it’s like this; his sheer gentleness. A hand held out for a terrified child, attentive silence as he listens to Spencer ramble, a phone call to check up on a friend in the middle of the night.

It’s like he’s purposefully trying to drive Spencer crazy.

“Here, take this into the kitchen.” Derek’s voice cuts through Spencer’s rapid descent into madness. Spencer looks back to him to see he’s holding out a cardboard box full of cleaning supplies for him to take. “There’s two bedrooms on the first floor and three on the second, just throw your bags into whichever you’d like. The front door is locked but the key should be under the gnome on the porch. I’ll join you in a sec, so don’t wait up.”

Derek winks at him and turns back to dig in the back of his car before Spencer can say anything.

* * *

Later that night, Spencer finds himself sitting on the kitchen countertop swinging his feet and tapping a rhythm out on his thigh, eating a carton of ice cream while he watches Derek make them another pot of coffee. 

Decaf, the absolute traitor. 

He’s aware of the crazed image he makes with his messy hair and mismatched socks all topped off with his glasses and Derek’s oversized sweater accentuating his slight frame and gawky, awkward limbs. 

But Derek doesn’t seem to mind.

In fact, when Spencer had walked out into the living room shivering in his t-shirt (a faded TARDIS pictured on the front with the words “ _Not that kind of doctor_ ” printed above it, a gift from Penelope, naturally) because Derek had failed to tell him that the _house has no heating yet,_ Derek had pulled off his own sweater — lifting the t-shirt below to show a sliver of smooth skin that Spencer ached to touch — and pulled it over Spencer’s head. He adjusted Spencer’s glasses from where they sat askew on his nose and murmured a soft _‘Cute.’_ before turning back to the kitchen and asking Spencer if he wanted any coffee. _‘Decaf only, pretty boy.’_

Spencer had stood there for a moment before gathering his bearings. Normally, wearing clothes that aren’t his own makes him feel itchy and flighty, but this is Derek’s and he’s comfortable with him. So he had nuzzled into the collar of the sweater and flapped his hands quickly before fisting the ends of the sleeves in his hands. 

It’s soft and pleasant and nice. Really nice. The weight of it envelopes him in a way that provides a calming, soothing sensation that is more pleasing than Reid would’ve originally thought. 

There’s nothing more to it. 

Plus he’s got a pint of Ben and Jerry’s Phish Food that he’s eating straight from the carton balanced on his thigh, turning the skin there a faint pink from the chill, so he’s really not thinking about who owns what.

Derek knocks away Spencer’s spoon with his own.

“Stop eating all the fish.”

“It’s the best part though.”

“Exactly!”

“I deserve them. I was the one who identified the unsub.” Spencer pointedly scoops up another chocolate fish, smiling around his spoon. 

“Wasn’t aware we were keepin’ tally,” Derek leans in from where he’s standing in between Spencer’s legs. “Tell me, pretty boy, what do I get as a reward for tackling the big bad guy and saving your sorry ass?”

Being up on the counter gives Spencer an inch or so on the other agent but Derek leans in far enough to necessitate Spencer to lean back.

Derek, the utter cheat, plucks the ice cream out of his hand.

“Hey!” 

“Snooze ya lose, doc.”

Derek flicks his nose. Spencer kicks Derek’s side lightly and rubs at his assaulted nose while Derek sticks his tongue out at him.

“You didn’t save my ass by the way. I had the situation handled.”

“Yeah, if you call attempting to talk down an armed unsub all by yourself with no backup ‘having the situation handled.’”

Derek annoyingly makes air quotes with his hands and smiles playfully at the agent in front of him. At least he gives Spencer the ice cream back.

“He was lowering his gun! If you’d just waited a couple of seconds instead of barging in to save the day he would’ve surrendered peacefully with no tackling involved.” Spencer accentuates his statement with a pointed jab of his spoon in Morgan’s direction. “Plus, he could have harmed you, he had a knife in his back pocket.”

“Uh-huh okay, Casanova. I think me getting stabbed is less concerning than the possibility of you getting shot.”

Spencer is all too familiar with Morgan’s discomfort towards the team discussing how his actions could have consequences, especially when it comes to him putting his life on the line for his friends. It’s best to change the subject after a bit and steer the conversation away from such things.

“Get back to making the coffee.”

“Yeah, yeah. Make me do all the work while you sit there and look pretty. Sounds fair.”

Spencer smiles around his spoon and swings his feet a little higher. Mission success. Derek chuckles at Spencer’s mirth and hands him a cup of freshly poured coffee as a peace offering.

Their laughter dies down and a question that has plagued Spencer for months trickles back into his head like a bad infection. 

“Do you think we would still be friends if we weren’t stuck together in the same room for hours on end?”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you think without the BAU we would’ve ever met? Would we be friends if we met now? Are we only friends because we work together?”

Spencer keeps his eyes focused on the ice cream as he scoops up half of the last bit of it, making sure to leave a generous amount of chocolate fish, before holding it out for Derek to finish. 

“That’s a loaded question, pretty boy.”

“We answer loaded questions at work every day.”

Spencer juts his chin out defiantly and chews on his lip, focusing on a loose thread on the sleeve of his sweater. Derek’s sweater. He bites his lip a little harder.

Derek leans against the counter next to him and digs out the rest of the ice cream and his brows furrow into a look of considerable consideration, marred only by the spoon sticking out of his mouth. 

“We’re friends now. All of us are. We care about you and you care about us, right? We’re a good team, so does it really matter?”

Everything about the questions seems to have gone over Morgan’s head. Or maybe he’s being purposefully evasive to spare Reid’s feelings. Either way Reid feels like Morgan might consider him more of a friend out of necessity rather than true care and companionship. 

Talk about loaded questions. Jesus. 

Spencer knocks back the rest of his coffee like bad whiskey and hops down from the counter, once again meeting Morgan’s eyes. They’re relatively the same height now.

“I suppose not,” Spencer says, shrugging. “I enjoy working with you too, Morgan. The BAU is lucky to have you.”

Derek’s gaze has always been like radiation poisoning, a small Chernobyl festering with silent, unfurling toxin, the side effects of which are still unknown. The amount of time between exposures is irrelevant, like one day you would reach your threshold and then it just killed you. Wrecked you from the inside out. 

Spencer looks back to his empty mug and swirls around the dregs of it.

“Wanna ‘nother cup?”

“Hmm?”

“Let me make you another cup.” Derek plucks the mug from his hands.

* * *

There’s an old piano tucked next to the bay window in the library. It’s a Yamaha that’s not quite old enough to be from the original owners but it’s clearly worn from misuse and abandon. 

Spencer is supposed to be organizing the books into piles of Keep, Damaged But Still Good, Donate, and Damaged Beyond Legibility and while he enjoys the repetitive nature of organizing, especially when it comes to books, the piano’s rough wood and cracked ivory keys are intriguing enough to pull him away from the task at hand. 

The piano bench scraps across the floor as he sits and he rubs at the invisible scars that mar the inner skin of his arm to distract from the flighty feeling he gets from the sound. 

Everything has been weird since last night. On edge. They had finished up in the kitchen and headed off to their respective bedrooms but Spencer barely got a few hours sleep. In the morning, Morgan had made breakfast and told Reid what he wanted to get done today as they ate.

There was nothing else to it. No banter or teasing or poking or even any unpleasantness; just a conversation so normal and bland it made Spencer’s teeth ache. 

He doesn’t know what exactly he did to make Derek so distant but he’s been running through their conversations word by word constantly.

Spencer plucks at the keys in front of him to find them slightly out of tune. A few scales prove that there are a few keys in need of tuning but overall it’s bearable and he could always ask Morgan if he could have a try at tuning it himself. After proper research and with tools, of course. 

It takes a little bit but he works himself up to playing bits of a few pieces.

Music is an odd thing for his memory to sift through. On one hand, sheet music is like any image or visual media; he can memorize it with one look through but translating it into music — to play the right notes in the right way, to bring out the musicality of a piece instead of reciting it like he would a book — is another feat entirely. 

“I didn’t know you played piano.”

Reid jumps in his seat and turns to where Morgan is leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed, sweat soaking his stained shirt and a streak of sheetrock across his cheek. Even from here, Spencer can see the dirt collected under his nails and the sweat on his brow. 

He looks heavenly. 

Spencer turns back to the piano and starts again. 

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Morgan.”

Morgan says nothing to that, opting instead to listen to Spencer play.

“It’s Franz Schubert’s Fantasie in F minor,” Spencer offers as he hears Derek walk up next to him. “It’s meant to be played with two people. Schubert composed it in the last months of his life for a pupil he had fallen madly in love with. Caroline Esterházy, I believe her name was. Sadly, she didn’t love him back,” Spencer lets his voice fall silent for a second, not stopping his playing. 

“Anyways,” he says, clearing his throat. “Schubert intended for them to perform it together so there would be moments where one of them would need to reach over the other and for a split second they would touch.” 

“Sounds lonely.”

“Some have compared it to the pain of falling in love.” A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Others call it a study in longing.”

“You play it beautifully.”

“It’s all math, really. All music is. My mother was an avid fan of Glenn Gould in her younger years,” Spencer says, softer now. He pauses for a moment to remember the movements before attempting to play the beginning of Beethoven’s Bagatelle in E flat major.

“I was seven when I found her tapes and I became utterly entranced. I would spend hours pouring over them. Gould played with such vigor and passion that I thought to myself ‘That’s it: that’s what I want. I want to find that.’ so I started fiddling with the piano at school. I haven’t really played in a while. Unfortunately, I don’t think piano was ever what it was to Gould for me.”

“Did you ever find what you were looking for?”

Spencer drops his hands into his lap and looks up at Derek.

“I like to think that I did.”

* * *

Spencer finishes up in the library nearly an hour later. A stack of books make their way next to his bed and Derek only gives him an unreadable look when he catches Spencer attempting to sneak them into his bedroom.

With the library done, his job is to bring old light fixtures from the basement to one of the first floor rooms where Derek is fixing some shoddy electrical work. 

He stops on the second to last step and nearly drops the box.

Derek is shirtless. 

He’s seen Derek shirtless before. They’ve roomed together enough times for it to become inconsequential and common but it’s only been quick moments between ripping shirts off to tug on an old band t-shirt before collapsing into a musty hotel bed or a rushed dash out from the bathroom to grab a button up as they hurry off to a fresh crime scene.

Now, though, all Spencer can think about is the anatomy book he found at fourteen during one of the many summers he spent inside a library. 

Spencer has always been prone to spend hours lost in novels and textbooks alike, the stack of finished ones quickly growing beside him. This particular textbook was nothing he hadn’t read or seen before but the possibility of learning something new wasn’t what drew him to spend hours pouring over it.

Instead, the grainy black and white photographs of male athletes posed at a starting block or balanced one handed on a pommel horse were what intrigued him most.

It was so easy then, to pass his staring off as scientific curiosity. To trace their muscles from one to the next without shame. _Latissimus dorsi, tensor fasciae latae, semitendinosus_ . He had half convinced himself, even as his finger passed over a swimmer captured mid-dive, ( _external oblique, pectoralis major, deltoid_ ), that his fascination was purely educational.

It’s much harder to deny now that his curiosity is merely that, with Derek standing half naked and sweaty in front of him.

He has a few scars, old and new, down his back and across his chest; it’s difficult to avoid in their line of work. Knots of muscle move and stretch and the v of his waist disappearing into his pants is only accentuated as he reaches above his head to mess with something in the ceiling. 

Spencer should probably get back to work and stop creeping on his best friend.

He finally pulls himself together to move, but his toe catches on the step and he’s instantly sprawled on the floor with a loud crash suddenly surrounded by glass. 

Immediately, he’s on his hands and knees trying to clean it all up.

“Shit, I’m so sorry. I didn’t see the step. I can’t believe I just—”

He’s babbling, he knows, but he can’t stop. 

“Reid. Reid. _Pretty boy.”_

Somehow, Derek is kneeling next to him and he lifts Spencer’s chin with a finger, making him look up at him. Spencer blinks, mouth shutting at the sudden contact, eyelashes fluttering. He hadn’t realized they were so close. 

“Don’t be silly. It’s fine, okay? I’m more worried about that cut of yours than I am about a few shitty antiques. Go sit down in the living room while I find a first aid kit to patch you up. Can you do that for me, baby?”

Morgan’s voice is low and soft and Spencer can’t focus on anything but the sound of it and the smell of his cologne — citrus and woodsmoke, stained with burnt instant coffee and sticky with sweat— and the warmth of his breath. 

It’s always like this when Derek is too close. 

A low, buzzing feeling he gets wherever Derek touches him or the floating lightheadedness when he calls him nice things like pretty boy or boy genius ( _or baby,_ his mind oh so helpfully supplies. _He called me baby_.)

Spencer blinks, trying to get his brain to catch up with Derek’s words.

Something about a cut. He looks down to where he’s clutching a blood stained shard of glass. Shit. Not only did he break a bunch of lights but he’s getting blood everywhere. When he looks back to Derek he’s looking at Spencer with worry knitting his brow. At that moment, Spencer wants nothing more than to push Derek away and tell him that his breath reeks and he needs to learn the definition of a goddamn personal bubble. But he also kind of wants to push Derek up against the wall to see if his mouth tastes like coffee too.

He’s bleeding all over the floor and all he can think about is making out with his coworker. What else is new?

“Yeah.” Spencer clears his throat, a warm blush slowly starting to spread across his face. “Yeah. Yes, I can- I can do that. I’m sorry I broke them.”

“Like I said before, kid, you’re fine. No skin off my teeth.”

Derek uses his other hand, the hand not lifting his chin, to tuck a stray lock of hair behind Spencer’s ear. Spencer swallows the lump in his throat.

“I’m, um, I’m going to go sit down now.”

“You go do that.”

Spencer all but runs to the living room, clutching his hands to his chest like a shrinking violet.

God, he’s already fumbling around and breaking things and it’s only day two. Truthfully, he thought he would last at least a little bit longer than two days before utterly making a fool of himself. 

_‘Tis foolishness, I ween, to overstep in aught the golden mean_. 

Hubris at it’s finest.

He could’ve spent his vacation in any number of bookstores or cafes, catching up on recent journals or even conducting his own research. Hell, he had plans to contact an old professor to see if they’d let him into the university’s archive before Derek had asked him to join him up here. 

Derek joins him in the living room with a bowl of water and a first aid kit. And _now_ he’s wearing a t-shirt. Spencer can’t tell if he should grateful for that or not.

Derek kneels in front of him, not quite close enough to touch, looking up at Spencer with a question. Spencer nods and Derek shuffles closer to gently pick up Spencer’s injured hands.

He doesn’t know why he agreed to come up here any more than he knows why Morgan would ask him of all people. He’s not exactly the athletic, fix-it type of person and he clearly isn’t qualified to be walking around a renovation space if his injuries and the pile of shattered glass are anything to go by. 

Derek moves the bowl of water onto Spencer’s lap. It's filled with warm water and Epsom salts and Spencer's bloody hands are submerged, tinging the water a pleasant pink. Derek runs his thumbs tenderly over the scrapes to wash away any blood or bits of glass before removing Spencer's hands, gently patting them dry with his brows furrowed in concentration. After removing the bowl, Derek pours some rubbing alcohol on a rag. 

“This is going to sting a little bit.”

“I’ve had wounds tended to before, Morgan.”

Despite his retort, he still hisses when Derek dabs at his wounds. He smirks up at Spencer. 

The glare Spencer sends Derek’s way has no real heat to it and Spencer has to resist sticking his tongue out at him. 

Derek scoots further between Spencer’s legs from where he’s kneeling in front of him and takes Spencer’s chin between his thumb and index finger, tilting Spencer’s head down and maneuvering him where he wants him. Spencer can feel himself leaning into his touch like a mangy stray cat and he prays to whatever gods exist that Derek doesn’t notice. 

Derek wipes a thumb across Spencer’s forehead and it comes off with a streak of blood. 

“How’d you get cut way up there?”

“Considering the trajectory of my fall plus the- ah shit _ouch._ ”

“Sorry, sorry.” Derek chuckles and dabs his wound with the rubbing alcohol again.

“You’re a jerk.”

“The jerk tending to your wounds. Now stop pouting, pretty boy.”

“I am _not_ pouting.”

Derek only shakes his head with a fond smile, like Spencer is endearing. It makes Spencer feel gooey.

Salve is applied to the worst of the cuts on Spencer's hands, Derek gently rubbing the ointment into his open wounds. Spencer can’t keep his eyes on him like this, overwhelming in his care. So he looks down at his socks. One’s black with little ghosts on them and the other is navy with various constellations embroidered on. The ghost above his right toe looks like it’s screaming at him whenever he wriggles his toes.

“You with me?”

“Yeah, sorry. Spaced out a bit. Sorry.” 

“Your right hand just has some superficial cuts that’ll heal quickly but that one on your left is the one you’re gonna have to be careful with. If we wash and ice it regularly and keep it elevated it should be fine in a week or two, bar any infection.”

“I know.”

“I know you do, pretty boy. It just makes me feel better when I say it out loud.”

Derek carefully wraps gauze bandages around Spencer’s left hand, making sure to keep his grip gentle and the bandage tight.

“I didn’t know you were a doctor.”

“Nah, just have to take care of one every once in a while.” Derek winks.

When he finishes, Derek snaps the first aid kit closed and pats Spencer on the shoulder.

“Let’s be done for the day, I’m beat. How about you order us some dinner while I clean up and we can pull up a movie on my laptop while we eat.”

Spencer nods and goes to find his cellphone.

* * *

As the house cools down for the night, Spencer changes into his pajamas and Derek’s sweater because it’s the warmest thing he has available. It still smells like him too, even after Spencer slept in it last night. 

Dinner is some subpar Chinese takeout eaten on the floor with their backs on the couch and their food and Derek’s laptop playing a movie on the coffee table. Derek tries to make him eat with chopsticks before Spencer threatens to stab him with one and to make his death look like an accident. 

They move to the couch after they finish their food and Spencer runs to Derek’s room to grab a blanket for himself and a hoodie for Derek before they settle in to finish the movie.

Spencer stops watching it when he realizes he could be watching Derek instead.

It’s an intriguing sight, as everything about Derek is. He’s sprawled out on the couch with such elegant carelessness that it’s hard not to look at him. Arms spread out over the back, reclined with his long legs unfurled so that one is hooked under the coffee table in front of them and the other is lengthened on the floor next to it. Everything about his posture is relaxed and uncharacteristically domestic. Spencer hardly ever gets to see him like this. He knows, in a second, Derek could be poised for a fight, muscles taut and coiled for action.

He’s overwhelmingly aware of how being wrapped up in Derek’s arms would make him feel small. Spencer has always been awkward. Lanky. Too tall, too talkative, taking up too much space at any given point of time. But, for all his fuss and teasing, in Derek’s arms, Spencer doubts he would feel that way. 

Derek must feel his eyes on him.

“You good, pretty boy?”

Spencer nods dumbly and averts his gaze, chewing on his bottom lip. A small shiver racks his body despite the blanket over his lap and Derek’s sweater.

A thought crosses his mind and he makes an uncalculated risk, one that he hopes not to regret later.

Spencer scoots over and tucks himself under Derek’s arm, brings his knees to his chest and tosses his blanket over the two of them. Like this is all about the fact that the house has no heating. 

Derek tenses beside him and doesn’t move, doesn’t look at him. _Fuck fuck fuck_ fuck _, I messed up._ Spencer is about to jump up and spit out some lame excuse about how he needs to go to the bathroom or get a glass of water or something to get him away from this mess he’s created when Derek’s arm circles around his shoulders and pulls him closer. His cheek drops onto Derek’s chest and his knees fall into his lap.

Spencer relaxes into him, nuzzling minutely into the familiar scent of the man beside him.

“Did you know, Virginia’s coldest day on average is the 29th of January and the coldest recorded day ever was January 31st in 1985 where some cities dropped to 30 below? Ironically, the coldest city in Virginia is Hot Springs with an average annual low of 40 degrees. Virginia ranked the 34th coldest state, right below Missouri.”

“There he is.”

“Hmm?” Spencer furrows his brows and tilts his head. Lost in the sauce; a usual feeling. 

“I was gettin’ worried. Hadn’t heard a statistic from you all day.”

“M’not all statistics and facts, Morgan.”

“I know. Only teasin’.”

Derek’s attention is back on the movie but the hand around Spencer’s shoulders traces circles on his skin.

The movie is some nonsensical sci-fi that’s free and looks just interesting enough to click on, but Spencer isn’t really paying attention to it anymore. The firm body next to him radiates with a tantalizing heat that is making him woozy. To keep himself from making another rash decision like touching or kissing or blurting out a confession he plays with the strings of the hoodie Derek’s wearing. Tugging at them and weaving them from finger to finger.

One of Derek’s hands gently wraps around both of his, ceasing his fiddling. Spencer is about to murmur out an apology when Derek’s other hand — the one that had pulled Spencer closer to him earlier— rests against Spencer's jaw and guides his face to turn up towards his own. 

Breath ghosting lips. Warm, dark skin. Heady, emotive silence.

Spencer’s will breaks and he surges forward, kissing Derek hard. He swings a leg over the other man's lap so he’s seated on his thighs. He wants to touch but his hands are still trapped in Derek’s grasp. The vibrations of Derek’s groan reverberate against his lips as the other man returns the kiss with enthusiasm; intoxicating and addicting. Spencer loves the way they feel. He loves the way Derek sounds unleashed. Like he’s dangerous, but Spencer caught him.

He’s got Derek right where he wants him. 

Derek pushes against Spencer’s chest with their trapped hands until Spencer finally gets the memo and separates. They’re both panting and Derek’s pupils are blown.

He lets go of Spencer’s hands — which quickly move to grasp at Derek’s shoulders— and brushes a stray piece of hair away from Spencer's face. 

The gesture makes Spencer clench his fists and hiss as the movement exacerbates his cut.

“Careful there. You okay?”

Spencer just nods his head and tugs on Derek’s hoodie for another kiss. 

Derek folds his arms around Spencer’s waist and captures Spencer’s lips again with a smile, forcing their kisses to remain slow. Every time Spencer tries to drag Derek into something deeper, Derek teases him with a little flick of his tongue behind his teeth or a light nip to his bottom lip before settling back into something softer, tender.

It drives Spencer crazy.

He squirms in Derek’s lap. He wants, _needs,_ more so he whines and bites Derek’s lip hard in retaliation, hoping to spur him on. 

“Feisty,” Derek murmurs, pulling away again. His big hands come up to grip Spencer’s ass, tugging him closer so Spencer settles in the cradle of his hips. It feels so good that it takes his breath away. Unable to stop himself, Spencer grinds down. The feeling is slightly muted from their sweatpants, but the hint of it is enough to make Spencer feel wrecked. Derek’s hands squeeze Spencer’s hips, thumbs tracing hip bones, keeping him trapped and steady and finally captures his lips for a real kiss, leaning forward and licking into Spencer’s mouth. 

Spencer hums a happy sound; half pleasure, half relief. He’s hard already. Might have been hard the moment he sat in Derek’s lap. It’s pathetic that Derek doesn’t even have to try to get Spencer riled up. All he has to do is sit there and exist.

Before he can analyze that thought, Derek is surging to his feet, Spencer held tight in his strong arms.

“Mmph,” Spencer grunts against Derek’s lips. He curls his legs around Derek’s waist and holds onto his shoulders. 

“Eager little thing, aren’t you?” Derek asks, voice low. Spencer wriggles in his grasp.

“Come _on_ , Derek, _please.”_

Derek chuckles as he kisses him again and starts walking them to his bedroom.

Spencer’s body is on fire and he can feel his cock leaking into the soft fabric of his sweatpants. Frustrated at Derek’s slow pace, he rips away from his lips and bites punishingly at Derek’s neck, then hides his face in the crook of it, arms wrapping tightly around it.

Derek moans and squeezes him tighter. “So impatient,” he growls, but Spencer can hear the smile in his voice. 

As soon as Derek is seated on the edge of his bed Spencer is dragging him into another kiss. It’s hot, wet and dizzying, with very little finesse. Everything about it is smacking lips, avid tongues, and painfully clacking teeth. 

Derek lets Spencer control it, lets Spencer guide him for the first few minutes before he wraps a hand around Spencer’s throat and pushes him away slightly with a nip at Spencer’s lips. Just enough to separate them but grounding Spencer firmly in place as he tries to chase Derek’s mouth with his own. 

Spencer’s eyes flutter open when Derek’s hand tightens briefly, before relaxing. His hand around his throat like a reminder. 

“You’ve got quite the mouth on you,” Derek says, eyes dark. His hand travels up from Spencer’s throat to cradle his jaw and he smears a thumb across Spencer’s spit-glistened lips. Spencer has always been fond of Derek’s hands; They’re rough and strong from wielding power tools and firearms alike but gentle and unyielding; every bit as Derek Morgan as the rest of him. 

“You’re just figuring that out now?”

Spencer ducks his head down and captures Derek’s thumb in his mouth, sucking up the length and mouthing the pad of it. 

“Brat,” Derek says and pinches his side with his free hand. Spencer squeaks and jerks away, glaring at him with no heat and pokes him in the side as vengeance. Uncharacteristically, Derek flinches away with a grunt.

Interesting. Spencer tests his hypothesis with another poke and yields similar results.

“Supervisory Special Agent Derek Morgan are you _ticklish?”_ Spencer grins, poking him in the side again.

“Don’t you even think about it, pretty boy.” 

The warning goes unheeded. Spencer starts poking him relentlessly even as Derek falls back onto the bed and curls into himself, laughing and trying to stop Spencer with pathetic attempts to swat his hands away.

Spencer’s onslaught is stopped when Derek finally captures his wrists in his hands and smiles up at him. Spencer knows he must look a sight with his kiss-stained lips split in a goofy grin and his hair wild from Derek’s hands. But he finds himself not caring, especially when Derek is sporting a wild grin of his own.

Spencer takes a second just to admire the man under him.

Without warning he’s pulling Spencer up and over his body like he weighs nothing, forcing a exclamation out of him in surprise. Spencer lands on his back and Derek curls over him, his body covering Spencer from head to toe.

Spencer’s legs fall open. He lets out a soft sigh that sounds more like a whimper and suddenly he’s shy all over. He can’t even bring himself to touch the man above him so he grasps at the blanket underneath him and tries to calm his rapid breathing.

Derek stares at him for a moment before leaning down and nuzzling Spencer’s neck. His lower half settles on Spencer’s body, hip to hip, the delicious weight of him pressing Spencer into the bed.

“Oh,” Spencer lets out softly as Derek’s hot mouth latches onto his neck, biting and sucking kisses along his collarbone.

“Sweet boy,” Derek says against his skin, voice low enough that Spencer can feel the rattle of it in his chest. And _fuck_ that’s nothing close to anything that anyone’s ever said to him and it should sound corny as all hell, but its the hottest thing Spencer’s heard and he flushes a dastardly red. He opens his mouth to retort but nothing comes out, instead he stares up at Derek wide eyed and panting while he pushes up Spencer’s sweater to uncover his chest. 

Derek leaves kisses on his stomach and up his sternum, nipping and sucking a carnal breadcrumb trail of little bruises across his skin while he traces his fingertips down Spencer’s skin.

Derek’s hand settles over the bulge in Spencer’s briefs and kneads firmly at it.

“Ahh,” Spencer gasps, head knocking back, his hips rocking up into Derek’s hand _hard_.

There’s far too many clothes between the two of them.

“Off, off, off, off, _off,_ ” Spencer tugs uselessly at Derek's shirt. When he can’t get it off Derek leans back and pulls it off himself.

“What would you do without me?”

“Fuck you,” Spencer snarls. 

Derek chuckles and captures Spencer in another kiss, deep and slow, before helping Spencer wiggle out of his briefs.

When Derek finally gets a hand on him without any fabric muting the touch a litany of pleas fall from Spencer’s lips. Muffling his sounds in Derek’s neck, Spencer gasps, his hips twitch at Derek’s touch. It makes him feel drunk.

Everything is hot and Derek’s sweater is still bunched up under his arms. Spencer goes to pull it off.

“Don’t. Keep it on.” Derek orders, his voice commanding in a way that sends shivers down Spencer’s spine. “You’re so pretty, all wrapped up in my clothes.”

Spencer whines, squirming under the weight of both Derek’s words and the hand around his cock.

“Shh, it’s okay baby boy,” Derek coos at him, running his hands up and down Spencer’s sides soothingly, “I got you.”

He presses a kiss to the side of Spencer’s mouth.

“Please, please Derek. Wanna touch you.”

“Fuck. Okay, just let me-” He sits up and strips off his sweatpants and drops them to the floor 

Spencer can feel his eyes widen at the sight of him.

“Can...I suck you off?” Spencer stammers. “Please?”

Derek’s eyes go wide and he looks like Spencer might’ve broken him.

“ _Fuck,_ baby. Yeah. Yeah.” Derek rolls off him to lay on his back. “Jesus fucking Christ.” 

Spencer eagerly scrambles to the foot of the bed and takes Derek’s cock in hand, the feel of it intoxicating on it’s own. He ducks down and licks up the underside, eyelids fluttering shut.

Derek lets out a low curse and slides his fingers in Spencer’s long curls.

He pops the wet head of Derek’s dick into his mouth and sucks. Derek moans and his hips jolt. Spencer squeezes at the thick base with his hand and takes him in further stubbornly, as far back as he can. Derek hits the back of Spencer’s throat. Spencer’s own cock gives a pitiful, helpless jerk, leaking wet. He moans around Derek’s cock, stroking at the base which gets slicker with saliva by the second.

“Fucking hell,” Derek grits out. His hips jerk up in tiny thrusts. His fingers go tight on Spencer’s scalp and it sends a sudden, hair raising shudder down Spencer’s spine that makes his eyes tear up. 

It doesn’t take long for Derek to lose a bit of control and start fucking into his throat minutely and Spencer encourages him with a moan. When Derek warns him that he’s about to cum and tugs at his hair, Spencer takes him deeper, determined and stubborn, as he finishes.

Spencer swallows, his tongue darting out to catch a fallen drop.

Derek looks down and Spencer looks back up at him, blinking hazily, with his cheek pressed against the back of one hand at Derek’s thigh. 

Derek pulls him up by his hair and back into his lap. He’s panting and hot all over and painfully hard.

“Nice to see that mouth of yours can do something other than talk.”

Spencer licks his lips. He doesn’t have the brain power to respond to that. 

He holds Spencer up by his hair just moments away from a kiss. Spencer whines and squirms, trying to kiss him again, trying to get him to do anything. He gets so, so, so close. But Derek’s hand twists in Spencer’s hair to stop him just mere centimeters from his goal. 

Spencer almost growls. A little sound must escape him because Derek laughs breathily.

Fed up, Spencer reaches down but before he can touch himself Derek gathers his wrists in one hand. 

“Ah, ah ah. My turn, baby boy.” Derek says. “Look at you. You’re so _small._ ”

Derek says it like it’s the most fascinating thing, like the delicate way Spencer’s wrists fit in his hand is something to be savored. 

Spencer’s face flushes hot and swears he’s gone deaf. It's a funny sort of deaf: his ears work just fine but the words he hears don’t quite reach his brain, not in the normal manner where they are sifted for significance and given a place in the hierarchy of meaning. 

Now they just accumulate and fester like coagulated honey. 

Derek’s mouth is on his again and Spencer forgets to think because he’s doing this nice thing with his tongue that Spencer tries to mirror. Spencer mewls—that’s the only word for it. And Derek eats the sound up. 

He wrenches Spencer head to the side and marks hickeys across his neck and Spencer can’t help but moan despite his best effort.

Derek thumbs at the head of his dick, making him tremble and whimper in his lap. He kisses Spencer’s temple encouragingly. “Go ahead, sweet boy.”

There’s a French expression, _la petite mort_ , commonly used in English literature that directly translates to _the little death._ The expression refers to the brief loss of or weakening of consciousness or, more specifically, a state resembling death. Synonymous with the idioms “a beautiful agony” or “a part of one’s self dies inside”, it’s first attested use was in 1572 relating to a fainting fit. However, in it’s more modern usage, the term refers to the short period of malaise, transcendence, or acme that comes with the metaphorical release of “life force” post orgasm, which can be explained by the release of oxytocin in the brain being something akin to death. 

With Derek Spencer understands the saying completely.

Between Derek’s hand on his cock and his teeth biting his neck, Spencer feels a desperate sound wretch from between his teeth. His orgasm draws out, slow as molasses, like time itself churns to a halt and his whole body seizes up, his eyes rolling up and his head knocking back. He digs his nails into Derek’s back and drags them down in a pitiful attempt to bring him closer, hips jerking helplessly, as he comes and melts into him. 

He comes to as Derek is cleaning him off with a tissue and hisses as he touches sensitive skin. Spencer lies there, boneless and sapped of any will to move. 

“Sorry, baby.”

When Derek returns from the bathroom sans tissue Spencer reaches out for him.

“‘S cold, c’mere.”

Derek obliges and plops down next to him, letting Spencer gather him up in his arms.

* * *

Spencer wakes up with his legs tangled together with Derek’s and his head tucked safely under his chin. He’d much rather sleep in but it’s hard to with the sun shining into his eyes through the warped glass of the windows but being wrapped up in Derek’s arms makes up for it. Kind of. 

The worry that all this is temporary stains the peaceful warmth of the morning. If Derek wakes up and plays this off as a one night stand, if this is just some one time wham bam thank you ma’am fling, Spencer thinks he might break. He knows he will break.

 _Let me have this,_ he thinks. _Please, God, just let me have this_.

Spencer wriggles out of Derek’s arms and sits up to look at him. 

He’s beautiful.

Derek calls Spencer pretty all the time but really it should be Spencer saying it to him. Everything about him is breathtaking from the thick-knuckled grace of his hands to the slope of his cupid’s bow. Spencer wants to spend hours tracing the lines of muscle and scars and skin that knit together to hold Derek Morgan.

Spencer’s fingers hover over Derek’s lips.

What is he trying to do? Wake him up with a kiss? Is that what people do the morning after a one night stand (is this a one night stand?) with their years long best friend/coworker that they may or may not be in love with?

Is he in love with Morgan?

The possibility of love is there but Spencer isn’t sure what exactly to call his feelings for Derek. It feels like a vivisection.

_Am I allowed to do this?_

Spencer hesitates mere centimeters away out of embarrassment.

“I can hear you thinking from here, pretty boy.”

Spencer snaps back.

Derek is awake, apparently, and looking at him with an eyebrow raised. He chuckles and props himself on his elbows, tilting his head in a playful way.

“Get over here kitten.”

Before he can think himself out of it, Spencer climbs back into Derek’s lap again like it’s becoming a thing (he sincerely hopes it’s becoming a thing). He’s hard and warm between Spencer’s thighs and under his knuckles where they’re pressed against Derek’s skin.

He squirms under Derek’s gaze, biting his lip and fixing his own gaze to where he’s clutching the hem of Derek's shirt. It’s a little pathetic, isn’t it, the way he reacts. 

Tenderly, Derek tugs his lip from his teeth with a thumb.

“You’ll bite it bloody.”

Spencer hums an acknowledgement and leans into his touch. He lets his eyes flutter shut, trying to remember everything about this, to horde it all away like a dragon with gold. 

He kisses Derek. It’s different from all the other’s; sweet, deep but with no sense of urgency or desperate fumbling.

When they pull away, Derek’s smiling at him, tilted and soft.

“Hey there, pretty boy.”

“Hi.” Spencer’s voice is embarrassingly muted with sleep. “You sleep okay?”

“Mhmm. You?”

Derek pets his sides under his sweater soothingly. He kisses Derek’s cheek and the underside of his jaw.

“I did. The National Sleep Foundation’s recommended eight hours of rest, I believe.”

“That’s good to hear.” Derek tugs on the collar of his sweater. “Shit, kid. Really marked you up, didn’t I?”

“Hmm?”

Derek traces the marks covering Spencer’s neck, his collarbone, his sternum. Spencer shivers. 

“Oh. I got you a bit too. Sorry about that.”

Spencer pokes one of the darker spots on Derek’s throat.

“Well you did warn me about that mouth of yours.”

Derek kisses one of the marks, sending another shiver down Spencer’s spine. Overwhelmed, he hides his face in the crook of Derek’s neck.

“The average hickey lasts 5 to 12 days and can be treated in the same way as other bruises; icing to reduce swelling and applying a warm compress to older hickeys to dilate vessels and promote blood flow. They can be covered with a concealer or powder corresponding to the sufferer's skin tone, or a fake tan. Alternatively, articles of clothing such as scarves, turtle necks, or sleeves are often used to conceal hickeys.”

“So you’re saying I should dress like a Bond villain for the next week or so? I don’t think Clooney will sit in my lap long enough to do that thing where I turn menacingly in my swivel chair while I pet him.”

Spencer giggles and nuzzles his face further into Derek’s neck.

“I think Emily has you beat in that regard; she owns plenty of turtle necks and has that minatory look about her. You’re much too favorable and prone to acts of altruism. Plus, she’s got Sergio.”

Derek cups the back of Spencer’s head affectionately with one hand and pops a kiss to the side of his head.

“Maybe I’ll be Bond, then. Will you be my Bond girl?”

Spencer bites him lightly.

“I think I’m Q. Maybe Christmas Jones, if you ask nicely.”

Derek chuckles and pulls him closer. 

They sit in silence for a moment, listening absentmindedly to the crepitus groans and creaks so integral to an old house, and bask in the weight of each other.

“Derek. What is this? Are we...Is this...I mean-” Spencer stammers into his neck, “I always thought you were straight. I never thought… I never thought that you would ever look at me the way I look at you and I never considered the possibility that this would ever happen. Ever. I’m still not sure if… it’s kind of hard to believe. I don’t know what this is.”

“What do you want it to be?”

“I want you.”

“You have me. If you’d like I’d like to take you out on a proper date, but I don’t want you to say yes only because we slept together.”

Spencer pulls back from Derek to look at him and chews at his lips.

“What’s going on up there baby boy?”

“I don’t know how to do this, Derek. How to navigate this.”

“A relationship? Or a relationship with me.”

Spencer just nods his head. Derek takes a deep breath. 

“Neither do I. But I’m willing to learn.”

“Blind leading the blind, then?” Spencer gives him a tired smile which Derek mirrors.

“Something like that.”

There’s something sad about the way he says it. Maybe not sad, but there’s something to it that makes Spencer meet his gaze. 

_This is my Chernobyl. My threshold._

Spencer places his injured hand on Derek’s cheek and tilts his head in a way that he hopes conveys a question. It feels like the only thing he can do. Derek holds him there, his hand encasing Spencer’s bony wrist. He turns slightly and kisses the inside of Spencer’s wrist.

“I’m fine, pretty boy. Just happy.”

“Happy?”

“Happy.” Derek smiles at him. It’s soft. Small. Merely a lift at the sides of his lips, but it crinkles his eyes in a way that Spencer finds pleasing. He wants to kiss him there. 

So he does.

“Happy.” he murmurs back and pulls Derek into another kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much to em for looking this over! you can find her amazing moreid fics on her [tumblr](https://rxseinbloom.tumblr.com/) or her [ao3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rxseinbloom/pseuds/rxseinbloom)
> 
> I also have a [ cm tumblr](https://enbyspence.tumblr.com/) if you want to scream about moreid and jemily with me. my main is [theophagite](https://theophagite.tumblr.com/)


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